Sunday, July 24, 2005

Something Poemish, raw still...and Incomplete )

The night, night voluptuous crawlsOver and under his citadel .Such a lycantrophic being is he;A bricolage made, of moon and moans,Seasoned with an orgasmic fright.To the textual gods, he pays his homage;And lonliness and the sorrowful delight.Cried in jouissance, didn't die;And wades through his trampled walkAlong common loves and uncommon loversAnd labyrinths converge-- at silence and MozartThe prayers were said-- fables toldOf dead mothers and estranged brothersOf Trivialities and wars lostSuch a rendezvous, such disscociationMirrors, images, and that was all.